Page 138 of What's Left of Us

Georgia/ Three Years Ago

Shuffling through thenew box of inventory that Turning Pages got early this morning, I hum to the pop song playing softly in the background and organize the titles that I’m supposed to put on display by the lunch rush.

As I fold up the empty cardboard box and tuck it by the garbage I have to take out at closing, the front door opens and chimes the bell.

“Good morning,” I greet, expecting to see one of our usual customers walk in. We get a lot of college students or bookworms like me who drag their boyfriends inside to browse for an hour even if they don’t buy anything.

But the man standing at the door doesnotfit any of those roles. I know what expensive suits look like, and the person who’s probably my father’s age is wearing one tailored to fit him perfectly.

I’m not sure why, but a strange feeling fills my stomach as the gray-haired stranger steps in.

“This is a quaint little space, isn’t it?” he says, turning to study the white shelves lining each wall that are full of books and themed trinkets.

My default smile stretches my lips up at the corners, but they waver as he takes another step toward me.

“I’ve been looking into investing in other businesses and have had my eye on this one for some time,” he tells me, studying the space with distant interest. “It would be interesting to get into something so…niche.”

Niche is a nice way to put it. “I don’t know if Claire is planning to sell. She hasn’t said anything to me about it.”

A low chuckle comes from him. “For the right price, everybody is willing to give up what they love.”

Something nudges my gut in warning. Clearing my throat, I casually walk behind the counter to put space between us. “What kind of business investments do you have already, if you don’t mind me asking? Maybe I can pass along your interest to the owner.”

I won’t, but anything to play nice with the person who triggers alarm bells in my head.

“I dabble in everything. Strip clubs, restaurants, construction,” he lists, his eyes finding mine again. “Speaking of which, I could use your help.”

I blink. “Myhelp?”

“It seems that your father has been struggling to deliver on certain terms of our agreement. And I’m having trouble getting ahold of him. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s dodging me.”

“You know my father?”

The stranger walks over to the counter. “I know your whole family, Georgia. We’ve met a time or two, but you were young. I believe the last time was at your mother’s funeral.”

Eyes raking over him, I try putting a name to the face but come up blank. There’s a familiarity about him that makes me uneasy, but I chalk it up to the similarities I see in my father.

Which makes sense.

“You knew my mother too?” I find myself asking, unsure of what to say.

The stranger smiles. It’s not as calculated as I’m used to seeing, but easy. Non-forced. “I knew Isabella well. Her death was truly a tragedy that could have been avoided.”

My ears perk up as something nudges my conscience. “Avoided?”

He doesn’t enlighten me. “Perhaps you could help me by sending a message to your father. I’m sure all it will take for him to remember our deal is a little…encouragement.”

The way he says “encouragement” makes me nervous. “I don’t think you told me your name. Hard to pass along a message without one.”

The smile on his face grows. “So much like your mother,” he says with a soft sigh. “You know, it was unfortunate that she chose your father. Her life could have been so different if she’d decided otherwise like her family wanted.”

If there was any other choice, I wasn’t made aware of it. My parents were in love, and the loss of that is what destroyed my father. “I suppose that’s what happens when you’re in love,” I answer, more to myself than to him.

He extends his hand out to me. “That’s where I hope you differ from Isabella,” he says, taking my hesitant hand and gripping it in a firm shake that sends chills down my spine. “Tell your father that Stefan Mangino was serious about his promise. And make sure to ask him if he was serious too.”

He releases my limp palm with a smile that doesn’t seem as threatening as his words.

Grabbing a candy bar from the stack by the register, he sets it down in front of me. “I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth,” he tells me, pulling out a one-hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and sliding it over to me. “Keep the change.”

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